They were in a huge, dimly lit vault that resembled an underground palace. Fish darted through the murky green water that covered the floor. Elevated boardwalks ran between rows of columns. Voices echoed in the cavelike chamber. Classical music played in the background. The drip-drip of water could be heard from a dozen different locations.
“The Romans had built these cisterns to hold a water supply for the GrandPalace,” Austin said. “The Byzantines discovered them when people started catching fish through holes in the floors of their houses. The stone lady is this way.”
They walked to the end of a boardwalk and descended to a platform. Two thick columns rested on bases carved into the faces of Medusa. One face lay on its side; the other, upside down. A steady stream of tourists came and went, after pausing to take snapshots of the curiosity.
Finally, the only other person left was a middle-aged man who had been there since they arrived. He carried a camera but hadn’t used it. He was wearing dark slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt with no tie, the standard uniform for many Turks. He wore aviator-style sunglasses, although the light was low in the cistern.
“Why do you think the Romans put the heads in this strange position?” he asked Carina, speaking English with a slight accent.
Carina studied the sculptures. “Maybe it’s a joke. One face looks at the world as it should be and the other as it is. Topsy-turvy.”
“Excellent. Would you be Signorita Mechadi?” the man said.
“Cemil?”
“At your service,” he said with a smile. “And this must be your friend, Mr. Austin.”
Austin shook hands with the Turk. After hearing of Cemil’s underworld exploits, he had expected a Damon Runyon character with a Turkish twist. This man looked more like someone’s favorite uncle.
“It’s good to meet you after all our dealings, Señora Mechadi. How can I help you?”
“We’re looking for a statue that’s the twin of one stolen from the IraqNationalMuseum.”
Cemil glanced at a new group of tourists and suggested a walk. As they strolled between rows of columns, he said, “There’s been a steady stream of Baghdad merchandise through Istanbul. It’s depressing prices. Do you have a photograph?”
Austin handed over the Navigator figurine. “This is a scale model. The actual statue is almost as tall as a man.”
Cemil produced a loupe-penlight instrument and examined the figurine. He chuckled. “I hope you didn’t pay too much for this artifact.”
“Do you recognize it?” Carina said.
“Oh, yes. Come with me.”
Cemil led the way to the exit, and they climbed back into the bright sunlight. The Grand Bazaar was a short tram ride away. The bazaar was a labyrinth of hundreds of shops, restaurants, and cafés, and former caravan-storage depots called hans. Politely aggressive proprietors lurked like trap-door spiders ready to pounce on passing tourists and talk them out of their Turkish lira.
They went through the Carsikapi Gate and made their way through the hot, unventilated maze of roofed streets. Cemil navigated the twists and turns as if he were operating on personal radar. He took them deep into the heart of the bazaar and stopped at a small shop.
“Merhaba,” Cemil said to a man in his sixties who sat in front of the shop, sipping tea and reading a Turkish newspaper. The shopkeeper smiled broadly. Putting the newspaper aside, he rose from his chair and pumped Cemil’s hand.
“Merhaba,” he said.
“This is Mehmet,” Cemil explained.” He’s an old friend.”
Mehmet brought out comfortable cushions for his guests to sit on and poured tea for everyone. He and Cemil chatted in Turkish. After a few minutes of conversation, Cemil asked Austin for the figurine and handed it to Mehmet. The shopkeeper examined the miniature Navigator and nodded vigorously. Using expansive hand gestures, he invited everyone into his shop. Shelves and floor were covered with rugs, jewelry, boxes of tea, scarves, pottery, and red fezes. He walked up to a shelf crowded with pottery and placed the figure next to a row of four identical statues.
Cemil translated his friend’s commentary. “Mehmet says he can give you a deal on these. Normally, they go for eight lira, but he’s willing to drop the price to five if you buy more than one.”
“Does Mehmet remember selling a statue to an American photographer a few years ago?” Austin asked.
Cemil translated the question and the answer. “Mehmet is Turkish. He remembers every sale he ever made. He recalls the photographer very well. Especially with this item, which moves very slowly. But he is old, and memory has not been very good lately.”
“Maybe this will help,” Austin said, “I’ll take all of the figurines.”
Mehmet beamed as he carefully wrapped each statue in tissue paper and placed the purchases in a plastic bag, which he handed to Carina.
“Can your friend tell us where he acquired these statues?” Carina said.
Mehmet explained that he had bought the statues in the south where his mother lives. He tells buyers that they are harem eunuchs. The craftsmanship could be better, and the detail was poorly executed, but he likes the old man who made them. He picks up a batch whenever he visits his aging mother, which is about once a month. The artist sells them in the abandoned village, he said.
“Where is that?” Austin said.
Cemil said, “It’s called Kayakoy, near the town of Fethiye. It was a Greek village until the Treaty of Lausanne was signed in 1923. The Greeks returned to Greece in the exchange and Turks living in Greece came to Anatolia. Then the Turks left after a big earthquake. It’s a tourist attraction now.”
Austin asked the artist’s name. Mehmet said he was sure he’d remember, but first he suggested that Austin and the lovely lady would like to look around the shop. Austin got the hint. He bought a silk scarf for Carina and a fez for himself, even though no self-respecting Turk would be caught dead in the cylindrical headgear.
Bidding Mehmet good-bye, at Cemil’s suggestion they headed to the Haghia Sophia neighborhood for lunch in a pleasantly shaded garden restaurant. While they waited for their food, Cemil said, “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
“I’m not sorry,” Carina said. “It gave me the chance to meet you in person, and to thank you for all you have done. Besides, we’re not through here yet.”
“But you have seen that the statues are only a tourist item.”
Austin lined up the figurines on the table. “How far is the town where these were made?”
“It’s on the TurquoiseCoast. About five hundred miles. Are you thinking of extending your visit to Turkey?”
Austin picked up a figurine. “I’d like to talk to the artist who made this.”
“So would I,” Carina said. “It’s quite possible he used a life-sized model.”
“This statue must be very valuable.”
“Maybe,” Austin said. “Maybe not.”
“I understand the need for discretion,” Cemil said, rising from the table. “Dalyran is only about an hour from here by plane. From there, it’s not a bad drive to Kayakoy. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, but if you need any help please let me know. I have a great many connections in Istanbul.”
A few minutes after Cemil left, Austin and Carina hailed a taxi to drive them back to the hotel. The desk clerk found two seats on an early-morning plane to Dalyran and made car rental arrangements as well. As they stood in the hotel lobby, Carina said, “Now what, Mr. Tour Guide?”
Austin pondered her question and said, “I think I can do something off the beaten path.”
A cab took them back to the archaeological dig. Austin asked Hanley if he needed volunteers. He put them to work shoveling mud through strainers. Carina didn’t seem to mind being covered from head to toe with Bosphorus mud. She jumped about like an excited schoolgirl whenever they found a coin or broken pottery from the muck.